miércoles, 13 de marzo de 2019

It was almost the end of the spring and I had been thinking about it for months. Many things were happening around me and I realised that I deserved better. Anyone deserved better. Fucking Satan would have deserved better.

However, I didn't do anything about it, I just waited for it to dissolve. Maybe feeling guilty for actively giving up? Well, it's safe to say that I was feeling guilty for absolutely everything back then.

I haven't cried myself to sleep ever since, or spent a whole day without laughing out loud at least once. Nobody has made me feel guilty for being sad. Nobody has humiliated me in front of others. Nobody has put the responsibility of their own emotional distress on my shoulders.

lunes, 11 de marzo de 2019

miércoles, 6 de marzo de 2019

I've noticed that for some people what I do has become a "trend". Every now and then I get a message letting me know that someone has copied my ideas. Of course they call it "inspiration". I call it "appropriation". What's the difference? Let's see what the dictionary says.

inspiration (noun): The process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something, especially to do something creative.

appropriation (noun): The action of taking something for one's own use, typically without the owner's permission.

Full stop.

This makes me sad because I think inspiration is such a great thing, but I'm not inspiring shit on those people. If I was inspiring them, they would think about the weird dream they had last night, they would feel the events of their life deeply and reflect about them. They would take all those emotions and find a way to express them, getting to know themselves better on the way. But I'm not inspiring them. I'm just giving them fuel to keep their machines working, looking for money, fame and meaningless crap like that.

This makes me sad because inside those minds lots of ideas are being wasted, just because their owner doesn't look at them. I get inspired by my nightmares, by a rolling paper advert that I saw like 15 years ago, by a film that I didn't like but watched anyways, by conversations I overhear on the tube, by the toys of my childhood, by my fears and hopes.

Don't tell me that you don't have those things to get inspired too. Don't tell me that you spent two hours on Photoshop reproducing my idea, therefore you have created something. Don't tell me bullshit. Look inside and watch your own ideas, feel your life and live it, because you are disrespecting yourself even more than you are disrespecting me.

miércoles, 30 de enero de 2019

It's been a long time since you killed yourself and you're still teaching me how to enjoy life.

A long time since we walked through that infinite cemetery counting gravestones until we saw yours and I still feel the tension in my forehead.

A long time since I last crossed Spain on a train and I still remember the feeling of contempt towards myself for not respecting my own life.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you what I thought about you when you were alive. I'm sceptical about souls, spirits and shit, but somehow I do hope you can read this. Because my respect to you triggered great changes.